One of the Maverick Boys
by PsychedelicCowgirl
Summary: Beau Maverick may have asked his sons not to drink but he'd never been very forthcoming with a reason as to why. And when a young Bart starts to feel that he may be blending in a little too well he can't help but test the limits...just a little.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Maverick or any recognizable characters and I am making no profit. This is just for fun._

**A/N: This is my first go at a Maverick fic and I want to thank Deana for giving me the nudge I needed to start thinking about writing one. And also for the nudge I needed to actually publish it :) Thanks for reading, let me know what you think. **

His whole life Bart had simply been "one of the Maverick boys". For sixteen years he'd carried that title without too much complaint but lately he'd found it was something he didn't particularly care for. Being a Maverick meant there was a certain code of conduct he was expected to live up to, or down to depending on who was asked. This included playing poker, being as charming and easy going as possible, and generally finding ways to avoid doing anything that resembled hard work. For the most part Bart was only too happy to do what was expected of him however, there were other qualities he found a bit more irritating.

He had learned early in life that people gauged what was expected of him by what they saw in his father and older brother. It was a comparison that may not have been too bad except Bret was the mirror image of their father. It wasn't only that Bret looked like Beau, although the resemblance was uncanny, it was the fact that he was Pappy's double in almost every way. They looked alike, they talked alike, they dressed alike, most of the time they even thought alike. Once Bret had another twenty-five years of age and experience on him, he would be an almost perfect copy of Beau Maverick. That was where things got tough.

Bart knew that there were certain qualities he shared with his father and that was something he didn't really mind. The problem was his brother got more "Beau like" every day, and Bart had soon found out people didn't just expect him to be like Beau, they expected him to be like Bret too. And while Bart loved his brother, just as he did his father, he didn't want to be Bret any more than he wanted to be Beau. He wanted to be Bart. Unfortunately, it wasn't easy being an individual when everyone saw him as nothing more than another one of the "Maverick boys".

Bart wasn't sure when his dissatisfaction with his position, not only in his family but his hometown, had started but over the past few months it had gotten worse. That dissatisfaction was one of the main reasons that on this particular night Bart found himself inside the Golden Dove instead of one of the other, more reputable saloons in town.

Pappy had a standard that he judged saloons by. There were some establishments the man just wouldn't patronize; the hole-in-the-wall that was the Golden Dove definitely fell into the category of places that weren't worth his time. He had tried to pass his standard along to his boys and under normal circumstance Bart would have avoided a place like the Dove as well but lately… Well, Bart hadn't been feeling quite himself. And if the Dove was a place Pappy and Bret wouldn't be seen in, it was exactly where Bart wanted to be.

So far it had been a rather uneventful night, as most nights at the Dove were prone to be. Most of the players Bart encountered there were average at best and the stakes were even worse. He had been playing with five other men for the past four hours and he was barely twenty-five dollars better off than he had been when he'd started and his lack of funds had nothing to do with playing badly. As matter of fact he was playing rather well tonight, he didn't even think it would be a stretch for him to say he was the best player in the game. No, the reason for his small winnings tonight was purely due to the fact that the stakes were just that low. Sadly, it was a common problem when playing in a place like the Dove, but Bart didn't mind. As long as he left a little bit better off than he had come, financially speaking, than he was all right with mediocre play.

Another hand was dealt and the ante started at fifty cents. Slowly the bets moved around the table with no one raising more than a four bits at a time. When it came time for Bart to make his bet he was almost tempted to completely shatter the mold a raise a dollar, but he resisted. He didn't know anyone at the table that well and being the youngest and still feeling a little new to the territory of the Dove, he didn't want to stir anything up. Matching the current bet, he made the customary fifty cent raise and let the game continue.

Of the five men Bart was playing with he knew three. The first was a man named Williams. Williams was around his father's age and a lifelong resident of the small east Texas town. He was the blacksmith in town and while Bart didn't know the man on a personal level they were both familiar to each other. Williams was also about the only man Bart had encountered at the Dove that gave him any kind of challenge, poker wise. The other two Bart knew only from his nights here at the Dove. One, Gentry, worked at one of the stores in town. The young man didn't possess a great deal of poker sense but he was a good sport win or lose. And he often lost. The other, Madison, was a hand at a small place just north of town. He was a better player then Gentry, a pretty fair player actually, but his company wasn't as pleasant or welcome as the clerk's was.

The other two Bart didn't know. One of them went by Hanson, he'd come around for the first time last night but Bart hadn't been able to learn much about him. He won some, he lost some, and he was pretty quiet about it either way. The other was anything but quiet. He'd given his name as Blake and said he was just passing through. Bart had been watching him most of the night and had decided he would probably be a decent enough player if he focused on the game. It seemed the man would rather talk than play though, but as he was entertaining enough and everyone else was winning off him no one seemed to care his mind wasn't really on poker.

Another hour of so passed with no more than a few bucks passing between players each hand. Bart couldn't help but grin to himself when he won the largest pot of the night, five dollars and seventy-four cents. He didn't know if Pappy knew about the time he'd been spending at the Dove, not likely since he hadn't yet got an earful about how his talent was being wasted, but he imagined the man would be horrified he could see what these men considered high stakes.

As Bart was collecting his money Williams called for a refill on his drink. Gentry also asked for another beer and the other three quickly followed suit. Bart didn't pay much attention to the orders until Blake nudged his arm. "How 'bout you, kid? You ain't had nothing all night. Must be getting kinda dry by now."

Bart was about to decline without giving it any thought at all when Madison snorted from across the table. "You ain't been around long enough, Blake. The Maverick kid don't drink. Everybody knows that."

Had anyone else said it, Bart might not have given the comment a thought. Madison's condescending tone however, hit him like a barb. No, he didn't drink, none of them did. His father might drink a glass of wine at dinner or a beer at a poker game if need be but he didn't believe in hard liquor. Bart had never seen his father take a drink of whiskey and Pappy had always asked that he and Bret to stay away from it as well. Up till now, it had been a request Bart had been glad to honor, but something about the way the Madison had said "Maverick kid" grated him. If there was anything worse than being "one of the Maverick boys", it was being the "Maverick kid".

As the bartender finished filling the others up, Bart stopped him. "I think I do want a drink tonight, Charlie."

"Beer?" The portly man asked.

Bart shook his head. "Whiskey." He'd had beer before. He didn't like it.

The bartender gave him a look but fetched another glass. Plopping it down in front of Bart, Charlie filled the glass, corked the bottle back up, and waited.

Bart suddenly noticed everyone at the table, as well as Charlie, now had their eyes on him. He felt a brief surge of panic that this was a terrible idea but quickly shook the thought off. People drank all the time. It couldn't be that big a deal. He lifted the glass. "Thank you, Charlie."

It took every drop of self-control Bart possessed not to shudder at the first taste. Beer had in no way prepared him for the biting, sour taste of the amber liquid, or the burn that started on his tongue and ran all the way down his throat before settling in his stomach like a rock. No wonder people called this gut rot. He had no doubt that in large quantities the liquid would be quite capable of rotting one's guts.

"That," he cleared his throat. "That's good, Charlie." Noticing Madison smirking at him, Bart felt a surge of defiance. Looking the man right in the eye, he took another sip. It was a little easier to keep the shudder at bay this time and the aftertaste didn't seem as sharp. Without any prompting, Bart took another drink, pleased when Madison's smirk became a scowl.

Before the cowboy could make anymore comments, Hanson spoke up. "All right, did we come here to play poker or watch the kid have his first drink?"

As though some kind of spell had been lifted everyone turned their focus back to their cards and play slowly resumed. Bart also turned his attention back to the game but he continued to frequently sip from the glass in front of him until it was almost dry. By the time that happened Bart had not only became accustomed to the sharp taste of the liquor and the burn that followed but he was starting to like it. Draining his glass he waved Charlie over for a refill.

Several more hands had been played by the time Bart reached the bottom of his second drink. "Charlie?" he called as he finished it off. It was then that he felt Williams put a hand to his arm. Glancing over, Bart gave the man a questioning look.

"If I may offer a bit of friendly advice, son," the blacksmith said quietly. "Ease up some. At least until you get used to it."

For a moment Bart felt a little agitated, but thankfully before he could make a sharp retort he saw the wisdom in the man's words. Williams was right. He'd never drunk before and had no idea what he could handle. One more might just be one too many. He also often met up with Bret on the way home he didn't want to have to explain being anything less than stone cold sober to his brother. Or his father.

"Want me to top her off?" Charlie called back.

Williams said nothing but raised one eyebrow slightly.

Bart sighed. "No, thanks," he replied. "I think I'm going call it a night."

"Speaking of calling it a night," Gentry spoke up, straightening what money he had left and tucking it inside his jacket. "I think I'll say good night."

"Need to be getting back myself," Madison added.

As the two men left Blake looked around at the ones who remained. "Well, gentleman, it seems our game has dwindled considerably."

Williams checked his watch. "It's getting a mite late at that." Collecting his money, he pushed back form the table. "I'll see you boys later." Hanson quickly followed the big man, leaving Bart and Blake alone.

"I guess that's that then," Blake said with a grin as Hanson walked out.

"I guess so," Bart replied.

Blake pulled out his own watch. "You got anywhere you got to be, Maverick?"

"No, I don't. But poker usually best when you have more than two players."

Blake laughed. "I agree but I wasn't talking about poker." He looked to the bar and called for Charlie. "How 'bout one for the road?" Blake asked.

Bart watched as Charlie filled the drifter's glass. The blacksmith's words came back to him and something told him he should refuse, but when Charlie started to refill his own glass he made no move to stop him. He w_as_ fine. He could handle one more.

He took his time getting through that last drink but by the time he reached the end Bart was convinced that he could really learn to enjoy whiskey.


	2. Chapter 2

The question about whether or not Pappy knew about the time he'd been spending at the Dove was answered the next morning. Bret had _accidentally_ made mention of Bart's newly acquired affinity for the place, and just as Bart had suspected, Pappy had had plenty to say on the matter. Already he'd been going on for a good five minutes straight and Bart didn't see the end coming any time soon.

"Why the Dove? What are you doing there?"

Bart took a deep breath before answering. There was a hint of irritation in the questions but he was somewhat surprised to hear honest curiosity as well. It was as though Pappy was more baffled by his decision than upset by his lack of discretion. "Playing poker," he said with a shrug keeping his tone as nonchalant as he could.

"And you couldn't find a better place to do that than the Dove?"

"It's not that bad."

Beau sighed. "Poker is skill, Bart. And skills have to be practiced. The ability to play the way I've taught you is a something that has to be worked at. The only way to grow that ability is to challenge yourself. You're too good for a place like that, Bart."

Sighing, Bart picked up a two day old paper and began scanning the front page only half-listening as his father's tirade continued; nodding or grunting in acknowledgement every once in a while so Pappy wouldn't get the idea he was being ignored. In truth he wasn't any more interested in the paper than he was Pappy speech. There wasn't anything that had been printed in the town's twice weekly publication that he couldn't learn by merely walking down the street, but pretending to read it kept him from having to give all his attention to Pappy's fussing, and fussing was all it was. Bart could tell by the way Pappy was still moving around the room and talking almost to himself at times that his father wasn't expecting much of a reaction from him.

"The place caters to cowhands and itinerant laborers. Not the most fertile ground for turning a profit. That's something you have to agree to."

Finally hearing a statement he knew Pappy actually expected a response to, Bart looked up. "I do all right," he said in defense of the establishment. "There's a few there who give me a challenge."

Bart understood his father's dim view of the Dove and while he didn't want to hear the fussing he hoped Pappy would be satisfied with keeping it at that. He didn't want him to pry too much into his real reason for going to the Dove. He knew neither Pappy nor Bret would understand his desire to be seen as something other than a "Maverick boy". Not that the sigma completely lifted when he was at the Dove but it did lessen considerably.

Beau scoffed. He suddenly looked over sharply. "You're not cheating are you?"

"No!" Bart protested, indignant that his father even felt the question needed to be asked. Pappy had taught him to manipulate a deck, manipulate it with great skill, but he'd also taught him when to use that skill and an actually poker game usually wasn't the place. "You taught me better than that," he added with a grin, attempting to placate his father some. At the very least he was hoping to end the lecture.

"I taught you better than to work a hovel like that, too," Beau muttered. "Doesn't appear that one took too well."

At that last statement Bart rolled his eyes and sent a glare across the room to Bret, who was watching the exchange with a badly concealed smile. He couldn't help but wonder just how accidental Bret's slip had been.

* * *

><p>Pappy's admonishment had gone on for another twenty minutes or so before he finally relented. Nothing else was said about the Dove for the rest of the day but Bart had noticed Pappy giving him sideways looks several times, looks that often ended with a heavy sigh or a resigned shake of his head. He knew Pappy's reaction was mostly because the man couldn't fathom why Bart would want to play in such a low-class place, and that he would get over it soon enough but even so, it was almost a relief when he was finally able to ride out.<p>

When he entered the Dove that night Bart was surprised by a greeting from Blake. The man had been sitting at a table alone playing solitaire but motioned for Bart to join him. "Hey, kid. Have a seat."

"Didn't think you'd be around tonight," Bart said taking an empty chair. He hadn't expected to see Blake again. Often times drifters were around just long enough to replenish supplies and sleep in a real bed before moving on.

"Just giving my horse a couple days rest. I'll be pulling out in the morning. But I figured as long as I was still around I might as well try and make a little money."

"By playing solitaire?"

Blake laughed. "Killing time until business picks up. How 'bout a drink while we wait?"

Bart quickly considered the man's offer. Last night he'd done a lot of thinking about the drinks he'd had, and he had finally admitted to himself that the only reason he'd ordered that first one was because his pride had been stung by Madison's snide remark. He'd enjoyed it and he'd enjoyed the ones that had followed, but he'd about decided not to make whiskey part of his nightly routine. However, he had suffered no ill effects from what he'd drunk last night and the man was only being sociable. A couple of more wouldn't hurt. "Yeah. Thanks."

After sharing a couple of whiskeys and chatting about nothing in particular, some of the regulars began to drift in. Before long Williams, Madison, and a couple of others had joined their table and a game had started. Bart had never played with the other two before and as the night wore on he made a mental note to never play with them again. Games at the Dove were often fairly simple but these two brought a whole new meaning the term; the pots were smaller, the buffs poorly executed, and most hands were just badly played. After three hours or so, poker started to lose a lot of its appeal.

Finally having all the bad poker he could stand for the moment Bart excused himself and wondered over to the bar where Blake had gone a half-hour or so earlier. He'd never left a game to go to the bar before but couldn't remember ever having been in a game this bad before either. Bart knew he didn't have to continue with the game, he could easily wonder into another saloon or even go home early but he didn't like the way either of those options sounded at the moment.

"Had all you can stand?" Blake asked with a smile.

"Yeah."

"I know how you feel. I'm bad but those two…"

Bart chuckled. The man was right. Blake had been the big loser last night but the two playing now made him look good. Blake than picked up the bottle on the bar and held it up in a silent invitation; an invitation Bart found himself accepting without even thinking. After finishing, Bart did the only decent and polite thing he could do and picked up the next round. Blake then returned the favor and after that, Bart lost count.

* * *

><p>Abner Williams had kept an eye on the Maverick kid all night and he didn't like what he was seeing. Maverick may have taken his advice about taking it slow last night but he seemed to have forgotten all about that tonight. The kid had had a drink in front of him most of the night and it didn't look like he was going to ease up any time soon. Even when his drinking partner, the drifter Blake, had called it a night and left the boy had stayed at the bar. The blacksmith would be the first to admit it was really none of his concern what the kid did, if he was old enough to be in a saloon he was old enough to drink, but at the rate he was going now he was going to be good and plastered by closing and that was concerning to the man.<p>

As he left the saloon that night Williams was torn about what he should do. The kid wasn't his responsibility but he didn't feel right just walking away and leaving him there. He knew what would happen if things kept going the way they were now. Come closing time Charlie would have to clear everyone out, which included anyone who couldn't leave under his own power. If the kid wasn't able to walk out on his own there were people who would be more than happy to help outside, and that was as far as that help would go. Judging by what he'd already seen Williams felt pretty sure the boy would wake up in the morning in an alley and the blacksmith didn't like that idea. He couldn't help but think the kid was too young to be thrown out and left that way.

Williams sighed as he battled with himself on whether he should go back or not. He didn't know where the Maverick house was but he could take the kid to his shop. At least that way the boy would be safe until he sobered up. He had just about decided to turn around and drag the kid away from the bar if necessary when he saw Beau's other boy coming his way. As far as he had seen the boys were pretty close and he knew the kid would be better off with his brother than him anyway. Williams was about to call out when it occurred to him he didn't know the kid's name. Not having anything else to call him he said the only thing he knew the young man would answer to.

"Maverick!"

* * *

><p>Bret stopped short when he heard his name, surprised to see the blacksmith, Abner Williams, coming towards him. He had no idea what the man could want from him. Due to his occupation, the burly man was acquainted with most everyone in town but he wasn't familiar enough with the Mavericks for idle chit-chat. In fact Bret doubted the man even knew his name, outside of Maverick anyway, but he nodded politely when the man drew closer. "Mr. Williams."<p>

"Where you planning on seeing your brother tonight?" The blacksmith asked, not wasting any time on pleasantries.

"Umm, not particularly." He and Bart didn't make plans that way. If they happened to meet up on the way home, fine, if not, well, that was fine too. He wondered why the man was interested. "Should I?" he added, hearing something in the man's tone he didn't like.

The man leveled him with a look. "Probably. He's at the Golden Dove; been coming in most every night the last couple of weeks." Again Bret nodded. "He's been drinkin' tonight. Quite a bit. You might want to pick him up to make sure he gets home tonight."

Bret felt a knot settle in his stomach. Bart was drinking? He'd had a feeling that sooner or later Bart would find some kind of trouble when he'd developed his liking for that rat hole, but he hadn't thought about Bart drinking. Apparently drinking enough to make Williams -a man who was more or less a stranger- think he was going need help getting home. Pappy would be thrilled when he found out about this. "Thank you, Mr. Williams. I'll do that." Without another word the big man tipped his hat and went on his way.

Bret continued on to the Dove dreading what he would find when he got there. For the last two weeks he'd tried to get Bart to tell him exactly what it was that he liked about the place, and for the last two weeks Bart had been unwilling to do so. Not even Pappy had been able to pry much out of him. Bart had merely claimed to like the run down place. Not having a reason to push it Bret had just let him go his own way. Now he was wondering if that hadn't been a mistake.

Pushing through the doors of the saloon Bret quickly scanned the room for Bart. Williams had made it sound as though Bart had already had too much and Bret was fervently hoping Bart hadn't made a complete idiot out of himself tonight. Thankfully, Bart wasn't hard to spot and Bret blew out a sigh of relief when he saw him. He was slumped over the bar as though the worn, mahogany counter was the only thing keeping him upright but otherwise the situation didn't look too bad.

Doing his best to ignore the looks he was sure he was getting, Bret went over to his brother and gave his shoulder a shake. "Bart?"

Bart slowly pushed himself up. He blinked several times but smiled when he recognized Bret. "Hey, Bret."

"What are you doing?" Bret asked, keeping his voice low. There was no need for the entire saloon to be privy to their exchange.

"Drinkin. Yaever 'ad whiskey?"

"Can't say that I have."

Bart turned back to the bar, propping his chin on one of his fist. "S'not bad. Should try it."

"Well, I think you've had more than enough for both of us tonight."

"Yeah," Bart answered with a grin. "Maybe did havabit much." Crossing his arms Bart dropped his head back on to them.

Bret would now put on money on the fact the bar was keeping Bart on his feet. He turned to the bartender with a glare. "How much did you give him?" he demanded. He couldn't help but wonder what the man had been thinking letting a kid drink the way Bart obvious had tonight.

The man gave a careless shrug. "He's a grown man, ain't he? As long as they can pay, I pour."

Bret rolled his eyes. A half empty glass and a mostly empty bottle were in front of Bart now. He really hoped the bottle hadn't been full when Bart had started although given the bartender's attitude he wasn't very optimistic that it hadn't. Even if Bart was "grown man", if anyone wanted to go so far as to call him that, it should have been obvious that he wasn't used to drinking that much. Didn't a bartender have the right to refuse service?

Bret was irritated by the man blasé response but the bartender wasn't worth his time right now. His main concern at the moment was getting Bart home, or at least out of the saloon, before he fell over. Stepping closer to his brother, Bret slid an arm around him. "Come on, Bart."

"We goin'?" Bart asked leaning on Bret heavily.

"Home."

Bret was relieved when Bart didn't protest; at least he wasn't a belligerent drunk. The last thing Bret wanted was to cause a scene and draw any undue attention to them. Bart did trip over the rail along the bottom of the bar when he tried to step away and nearly sent both of them to the floor but thankfully, Bret was able to grab hold of the edge of the bar and keep both his footing and his grip on Bart. The rest of the short journey outside was made without any major incidents.

Once they were out in the cooler, fresher night air, Bart's head seemed to momentarily clear some. His steps didn't falter as much and Bret felt him take a little more of his own weight, for which he was grateful. Bart wasn't heavy by any means, he was lighter than Bret, but it still wasn't easy hauling his dead weight.

"Can you mount?" Bret asked when they got to the horses, pleased to see Bart was standing on his own, albeit unsteadily.

"Course." Bart had always considered himself the better rider of the two and even intoxicated he managed to sound offended by the suggestion he couldn't mount.

Bret soon learned it was only Bart's pride talking, and pride only carried him so far. By the time Bart was actually on his horse, Bret had made the decision they were riding home double. He had serious doubts about how long his brother could actually sit a saddle in his current state and he was in no mood to try and get Bart remounted if he were to fall off. Once Bart was in the saddle Bret deftly swung up behind him and, ponying his own horse, started them for home.

It was hardly two miles from the Dove to the Maverick'all ranch just past the outskirts of town and the ride wasn't nearly as bad as Bret had feared it would be. Truth be told it went fairly well. For the most part Bart was quiet and remained slumped forward in the saddle so that even keeping him balanced wasn't been much of a problem. By the time they arrived home and Bret slide off the horse he was feeling much better about the whole situation. He knew Pappy would find out about what had happened tonight, it was unavoidable. The town was too small and Beau's temperate stance too well known for it not to get around that the youngest Maverick had nearly drunk himself into a stupor. But Bret was optimistic that he could get Bart inside and put to bed without disturbing their father. At least that way Bart would be sober enough to answer for himself when Pappy did get word of what had happened.

"Alright, brother Bart, let's get you inside and you can get to work on sleeping this off."

Bart half-fell from the horse and Bret soon found himself supporting most of his brother weight again. They were about halfway to the house when Bart came to an abrupt stop.

"Bret," he moaned.

"What's wrong?" Bret demanded. Bart had been pretty laid back and compliant since they'd left the saloon; his sudden resistance didn't set well with Bret.

"I don't…" Bart trailed off with a groan.

Bret heard the gag but even without it he would have known what was coming due to the spasm he felt go through Bart's body. Bret hastily took a couple of steps back. He was pretty sure Bart would find himself on the ground without his support but he wanted to give his brother plenty room too. Unfortunately, Bret's body didn't work as quickly as Bart's did. Before he could put any real distance between them, Bart heaved. Most of the vomit hit the ground harmlessly, but when all was said and done Bret found that his right trouser leg wasn't totally spared the assault.

Bret closed his eyes with a groan, fighting back irritation. That was exactly what he'd been afraid of and what he'd tried to keep from happening. It would be different if Bart was legitimately ill but having to wear his brother's regurgitated supper because of his own stupidity was something else. Taking a couple of deep breaths Bret forced himself to remain calm. It wouldn't do any good to get mad at Bart now but he made a mental note to make sure his brother found out about all of this later.

"Let's go," he grumbled, pulling Bart closer and continuing on towards the house.

They hadn't gotten more than a couple of yards before Bart stiffened again. This time he pushed away from Bret. The action was weak but unexpected and Bret turned his brother lose almost without thinking. Bart took a few stumbling steps forward before he fell to his hands and knees and proceeded to once again spill his guts.

Bret went over and dropped down beside Bart, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand on Bart's back. He knew it really wasn't helping in any way but he couldn't just stand there while his brother was sick. When it seemed like Bart had finished Bret started to rub the back of Bart's neck. "You all right?"

For a moment the only response he received were shallow pants, then Bart shook his head. "No."

Bret couldn't stop the smile that came to his face. "You will be." He gave Bart a minute to collect himself before he gave his neck a gentle squeeze. "Come on. You'll be more comfortable inside."

Bart got to his feet shakily but that was as far as he got before he doubled over with a grunt of pain. "Bret," he moaned through clenched teeth.

"I'm here," Bret said, giving Bart's shoulder a supportive squeeze as he rode out the stomach cramp, again feeling helpless. When he felt the muscles under his hand start to relax Bret tugged on Bart's arm. He was afraid if he gave Bart a minute again they'd never get inside.

Reluctantly Bart straightened. As he did Bret noticed with dismay that Bart had managed to soil his own clothes during his latest bout of nausea. Shaking his head Bret gave Bart's arm another impatient tug. He knew Bart was miserable and he almost felt guilty about being rough with him but knew that nothing was going to change that misery tonight. And surly Bart being miserable in his own bed would be better than being miserable in the front yard. More or less pulling Bart inside, Bret found himself praying Bart wouldn't get sick again, at least not until they were safely in his own room with the added company of the chamber pot. Someone must have been listening because they made the trip without any more trouble.

Arriving in Bart's room, Bret pushed his brother down on the bed. "Stay there," he ordered. Bart seemed more than willing to comply and obediently set on the edge of the bed, his head hanging.

Bret held a hand on his brother's knee for a moment, making sure he wouldn't topple on to the floor before backing up. Blowing out a breath he tried to sort out what he needed to do first. They both needed to change, especially Bart, and although Bart had gone several minutes without throwing up he doubted that part of the night was over. He scooted the pot out from under the bed with his foot and was about to try and remove Bart's jacket when Bart groaned and started to lie down.

"Don't!" Bret cried, grabbing Bart's arm. The last thing Bret wanted to do was have to clean the bed up too.

Bart shoved Bret's hand off. "Leavemelone."

Bret felt his irritation flare. He knew Bart wasn't really himself right now but that didn't make him any less annoying. He had the brief impulse to do just what Bart said and leave him there, but then Bart squeezed his eyes shut with a moan as he doubled over again. Bret's irritation slowly bled out as he realized his brother was probably in pain, or at the very least terribly uncomfortable. His protective instincts resurfaced as he dropped down in front of Bart.

"Bart? Do you feel sick again?"

The only response he got was a grunt as Bart dropped his head onto his shoulder. Bret sighed. There wasn't anything he could really _do_, so he supposed they would just sit here, until Bart's stomach settled some more anyway.

It took about a minute for Bret to realize that wasn't the best plan. His knees were already starting to protest his position on the wooden floor and Bart didn't look like he was going to move anytime soon. He was about to push Bart back up when he felt it; the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched. Bret grimaced. There was only one other person in the house who could be watching them. Feeling his own stomach clench, he cut his eyes over to the door. Leaning against the door frame, an unreadable expression on his face, was Beauregard Maverick.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey,y'all. For some reason this chapter was a beast to write but after many rewrites I finally have chapter 3 ready for you. Hope you enjoy and a big "Thank You" to Deana for her proofreading services. **

Bret felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he locked eyes with his father. "Pappy," he said, chuckling nervously.

Without a word Beau pushed off the door-frame and slowly went over to the bed. He didn't ask any questions; he didn't have to. It was obvious that Bart wasn't well, and given the fact that both boys smelled of liquor and vomit, there was little question as to why that was. "Bart?" he asked softly, kneeling beside Bret.

Bart slowly lifted his head and peered at his father through watery, red-rimmed eyes. He mumbled something unintelligible before dropping his head again, this time on Beau's shoulder.

Beau sighed. "What were you thinking, boy?"

Bret watched the exchange in silence, unable to shake his guilty feeling. He knew that Bart had made his own decisions about tonight, but he couldn't help but feel that he had somehow failed to take care of his little brother. He felt like he needed to say, well, something. "Pappy, I…."

Beau cut him off with a shake of his head, motioning for the pot when Bart gagged again. Bart was soon hanging over it, retching once more. Bret couldn't help but wince at the sound, it was almost as if Bart's guts were trying to work their way loose, and by the time he was done, he was trembling and sweat had broken out across his face.

Beau set the pot on the floor and gave Bart a moment to rest before he gently pushed him up. "Sit up, son. You need to get out of those clothes."

Bart tried to sit up, but he was still very unsteady in his inebriated state and it took Bret having to hold him up before Beau could get anything done. Once he was supported by Bret, Beau was able to slip off first Bart's jacket, then his shirt. Finding his Henley damp with sweat, Beau started to remove that as well.

"I'm sorry about all this," Bret said quietly, unable to stand the silence any longer.

Beau paused and met his older son's eyes. "Did you buy him the drinks?"

"No, Sir."

"Did you make him drink them?"

"No,"

"Then it's not your fault. He made his choice and now he's paying for it."

Bret smiled slightly. He knew it wasn't his fault, but it was still a relief to know that Pappy didn't blame him; especially since he'd been told his whole life that he was supposed to look out for Bart.

When they had finished getting Bart undressed, Beau let him lie down. As soon as he was down Bart curled up on his side. Judging by his soft groan, his stomach was still cramping, and for several moments he lay with his arms around his middle. When he did relax however, he seemed more at ease than he had since the whole ordeal had started.

Beau shook his head and ran a hand through his graying hair before turning to Bret with a wan smile. "I bet you had a fun ride home."

Bret rolled his eyes. "I won't complain if I don't have to do it again."

"I see you didn't escape unscathed either," Beau said, with a pointed look at Bret's trousers.

Bret looked down at his pants and scoffed. Being wrapped up in taking care of Bart, he'd almost forgotten that he needed to change as well. "It's been an eventful evening," he said.

Beau chuckled. "Go get cleaned up. I can take care of him."

Bret was surprised that Pappy didn't sound nearly as upset as he had first anticipated him being. As a matter of fact, given that Bart was so drunk that he could barely keep himself upright, Pappy seemed remarkably calm. And if Pappy was volunteering to nurse Bart through his vomiting and cramps, then Bret wasn't going to fight him for the job. Feeling confident that Pappy wouldn't kill Bart while he was gone, Bret left to change.

Bret was on his way to his room when he remembered the horses. Before changing, he made a detour outside to see to them. Stripping off their saddles, he gave both animals a quick rubdown and turned them out into the small corral. His responsibility to the mounts taken care of, he was finally able to clean himself up. He took his time changing and washing, but as soon as he was done, he found himself going to check on Bart again.

When he got back to Bart's room, Bret paused at the door, surprised by what he saw. During his absence, Bart had made his way from the bed to the floor, and was now lying with his head in Pappy's lap while Pappy absentmindedly ran his fingers through his younger son's hair. The intimacy of the scene was unusual and Bret couldn't help but smile. Bret didn't doubt his father's love, but Pappy wasn't a man that could easily express that love. The only times that Bart had seen the kind of affection that he was witnessing now, had been in the days immediately following Mama's death and when he and Bart had been sick as children. Seeing one of his boys ill had often brought out gentleness that few would guess Beau Maverick of being capable of. Bret found it oddly comforting to know that Pappy would still give them that gentle care if need be.

"Is he asleep?" Bret asked, coming in and settling down on the floor beside his father.

"Well, he's not quite awake. I'm afraid it won't last long though."

"But he's all right?" Bret was pretty sure that Bart wasn't suffering from anything more than the beginnings of a classic hangover, but it was unsettling to see his little brother like this nonetheless.

Beau breathed a laugh, understanding where Bret was coming from. "He's not going through anything a million fools before him haven't faced. He's in for a rough night, but he'll live." Being one of the aforementioned fools himself, Beau knew what he was talking about.

Bart stirred then. Groaning, he pushed himself up on one elbow, looking decidedly pale.

Beau pulled the porcelain pot over closer to them, knowing what was about to happen. "Bart?" he asked quietly.

"Pa – Pappy, I don't …" Bart trailed off with a pitiful moan. What little color he had left suddenly drained from his face, and Bart made a lunge for the pot as his heaving starting once more. Finishing, again sweaty and shaking, Bart fell back on his father. Grabbing a fistful of Pappy's shirt, Bart turned his face into his father's stomach with what could only be described as a whimper. "Pappy, stop it."

Beau knew that for Bart to make a plea like that, he either had to feel like he was dying, or he didn't know what he was saying. Either way it was hard for him to hear. "I'm sorry, son. I can't do anything," Beau said, rubbing gentle circles on Bart's bare back. Not receiving an answer, Beau wasn't sure if Bart had heard his words or not.

"He's miserable, isn't he?" Bret asked.

Sighing, Beau pushed Bart's sweat dampened hair off his forehead. He hated seeing his son like this. He hated him being sick, hated knowing that he was hurting; hated that Bart had brought this on himself. "Unfortunately, yes," he said in reply to Bret's question. Maybe Bart would remember some of this misery next time he was tempted to get a drink…or five or six or however many Bart had actually downed.

"Is this the first time, Bret?" Beau asked. He was hoping that Bart had merely decided to try something new and gotten carried away. He knew only too well how easy it was to do that.

Bret shook his head. "As far as I know. I don't see him every night but when we did meet up he's always seemed fine, he's certainly never been like this before."

"Well, I'm guessing you weren't playing at the Golden Dove tonight."

Bret gave his father an incredulous look. "If the day ever comes that I pick a place like that to play in, I'll just quit and get an honest job."

"I'm glad there's somebody here that listens to me. But you shouldn't even joke about honest work."

Another groan pulled their attention back to Bart. Beau felt Bart tense up, and the fist still gripping his shirt tightened. Beau's hand moved toward the pot just in case in was needed, but it wasn't long before Bart relaxed again. Apparently it had only been a cramp. "Well," he turned to Bret. "As you like to be a bit more civilized in your work, how'd you find him tonight?"

"Williams told me about him. I saw him on the way home."

"Abner?"

"Yeah. He suggested I look in on him. He said that Bart might need some help."

Beau looked down at Bart, who was once again dozing. He'd have to thank the blacksmith the next time he saw him. Or maybe he wouldn't bring it up. Either way he was grateful that the man had taken the incentive to look after Bart tonight.

Bret sighed and leaned his head back on the bed. "I sure would like to know what he's been thinking lately."

"So would I. And I intend to get some answers tomorrow."

"Sounds serious," Bret said, with a smirk. He knew how much Pappy disliked anything being too serious.

Beau matched his son's smirk. "I suppose so." Looking back to Bart, he blew out a breath. "Bret, I want you to do me a favor. Find something to do in the morning, something to get you out of the house. I want to talk to him, and I'd like it to just be the two of us." Bret had been correct; whatever happened come morning would be serious, much more serious than Beau cared for, and he couldn't help but think that it would be a lot easier if he only had to talk to one of them.

"Yes, sir," Bret answered with a grim smile. He knew both the look in Pappy's eye and the tone of his voice. He didn't envy Bart the talk that he was going to get.

"Why don't you go on to bed?" Beau said, lighting his tone, trying to shake off the somberness that had settled over the room. "There's nothing else you can do. He's pretty quiet now anyway."

"All right." Bret wasn't sure if Pappy was hinting at him to leave or merely making a suggestion, but he agreed anyway. "Night," he said, getting to his feet.

"G'night, Son."

* * *

><p>Sometime after Bret left, Bart finally fell asleep. Not the restless dozing that he'd done in between his meetings with the chamber pot, but actual sleep. On the one hand, Beau was relieved that Bart was getting some actual rest; on the other, they were still in the floor. He didn't particularly like the thought of having to wake Bart up, but his back was starting to remind him that he wasn't as young as he had once been, and he didn't want to spend any more time than he had to in his current position.<p>

Reluctantly, he gave Bart's shoulder a gentle shake. "Bart?"

"Mmm."

"Let's go to bed." Bart mumbled something in reply. "Bart." Beau shook him a little harder.

"Wha?"

Beau smiled. "Get in the bed."

Bart groggily pushed himself up. With his father's help he literally crawled into the bed and was asleep again almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Beau straightened with a grunt, stretching the muscles in his back. For a moment he just stood over Bart, watching him.

Beau had never admitted it to anyone, but he'd been scared to death when he'd been windowed. The thought of being left alone to try to raise two young boys had been one that had shaken him to his very core. He knew that he'd made his mistakes, a few of the less agreeable women in town had on occasion taken it upon themselves to tell him all about them, but he'd honestly done the best he could. Granted, their upbringing had been a little unconventional and perhaps he'd been a bit lax with discipline, but he was proud of his boys. Personally, he'd thought that they'd both grown into fine young men, and while they both possessed a strong Maverick personality, they were as different as night and day.

Beau was well aware of the fact that Bret was just like him; at times he was too much like him. Like himself, Bret was in no way a fighter. He would fight when there was no other choice, but it was always a last resort, and even then he did his best to keep things from getting overly physical. Mostly he was satisfied to take the path of least resistance. Even as a child, Bret hadn't been one that questioned much, instead, he'd accepted almost everything at face value. Bart was different. While Bart would just as soon sit back and mind his own business as well, he was more likely to question, more likely to resist, and more likely push back than either him or Bret.

Sighing heavily, Beau rubbed his hands over his face. He was dreading the conversation that the morning would bring. He'd always hoped that it was a talk that he would never have to have, although part of him had known sooner or later that it would come up, and he'd always known that when it did come up; it would be because of Bart.

Leaning down, he brushed Bart's hair back. "Why didn't you just listen to me, son?" he mumbled, knowing full well that Bart couldn't hear him.

He didn't anticipate Bart waking again till morning. His sleep would likely be restless, but he would be fine. Fine enough that Beau couldn't think of one good reason why he shouldn't go to his own room and try to get some sleep of his own, but he didn't go. Instead, he retrieved a straight-backed chair from the other side of the room and set it by the bed. Maybe it was seeing Bart so miserable before, or maybe it was his son's pitiful plea earlier, but whatever it was, Beau just wasn't ready to leave him alone yet.

Stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his arms, Beau settled in for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

When Bart woke up the next morning the first thing he noticed was that someone had buried a hatchet in his skull. At least that's what it felt like. It also felt like his eyes were full of grit and the acid taste in his mouth served as an unpleasant reminder of the time he'd spent vomiting last night. Moaning he rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. It would be wonderful if he could go back to sleep so he wouldn't be aware of just how awful he felt. Or maybe just die. At the moment Bart didn't think he'd really care which one happened and for some time he simply lay there hoping to get his wish that sleep, or death, take him; neither did. It soon became apparent that there was too much light coming through the window for him to go back to sleep and he wasn't bad off enough to die, regardless of how he felt.

As his rational mind slowly became more alert, Bart started to remember bit and pieces from last night. There were a lot of hazy moments but a few things stuck out; the moment he stopped caring about how much he'd drunk, Bret dragging him out of the Dove, being sick, Pappy. Remembering his father Bart groaned and burrowed down farther in the bed, throwing his quilt up over his head. Now he was sure he wanted to die, it was preferable to facing Pappy anyway. But, that rational part of his mind reminded him, that wasn't going to happen and he was probably better off just getting out of bed and facing whatever lay ahead. At the very least he might be able to get something to help his headache.

Slowly he pushed his quilts away and set up on the edge of the bed. The action made the ache in his head increase and for a while he set there, elbows on his knees, holding his head and waiting for the pain to dull. Once it did he reached for his watch and flipped open the cover. After blinking several times Bart was able to focus on the time and was shocked to find it was nearly one in the afternoon. No one in the family was known for being an early riser, Bart personally hadn't rolled out of bed before nine since finishing school, but even by Maverick standards, 1:00 P.M. was late.

Forcing himself off the bed Bart dressed and reluctantly left the safety of his room. He paused just outside the door and listened, noticing how quiet the house was. It was too quiet. Sound traveled through the house well and this time of day he should have been hearing conversation or Pappy and Bret banging around in some room or something. His feeling of dread growing, Bart slowly walked down the hallway to the sitting room. He wasn't surprised to find the room empty but that discovery didn't do anything to alleviate the apprehension he was feeling. Sighing heavily, Bart took a quick glance into the kitchen and found his father setting at the table reading a paper.

Leaning back against the wall, Bart blew out a breath. He knew the confrontation was coming and part of him wanted to get it over with, but another part, a larger part, wanted to turn around, go back to bed, and put it off as long as possible. Running wouldn't do any good, Bart knew that, but that knowledge didn't make stepping into that room any easier. Granted, sitting at the table, reading his paper Pappy seemed pretty calm but they hadn't started talking yet. And Bart had never had to face him with drunkenness before.

As Bart stood there trying to work up the guts to face his father he couldn't help but wonder where Bret was. He hadn't seen any sign of his brother and while Bart knew the absence was likely by design a part of him hoped Bret would make a sudden appearance. He didn't relish the thought of facing Pappy alone. He'd hoped Bret would be around to act as a buffer if need be but, he reminded himself, this wasn't Bret's problem. He'd made his bed; it was time to sleep in it.

Taking a deep breath, Bart stepped into the kitchen. Pappy didn't appear to notice his presence so Bart cleared his throat, winching when the action irritated his still raw throat. "Mornin'," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Beau looked up and gave Bart a long look before answering. "Afternoon would be more appropriate," he said, sitting his paper aside. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible," Bart mumbled honestly. And it wasn't just the hangover. Bart had grown up spoiled rotten. As children he and Bret had been allowed to do most anything they'd wanted, within reason, especially after Mama had died. There had been very few things Pappy had forbidden and now that they were older Bart could think of only one thing Pappy had specifically asked them not to do. Last night he'd done it.

Beau nodded to the chair across from him, indicating Bart should sit. Bart set but he intentionally took the chair farthest from his father. Given the size of the table it didn't put that much distance between them but Bart would take what he could get. As it turned out, distance wasn't something he needed to worry about because as soon as he set down Pappy got up. Going to the other side of the kitchen Pappy began pulling things off shelves and mixing something together.

At first Bart watched, mildly curious, as he waited for Pappy to say something. But Pappy didn't say a word and Bart certainly wasn't going to open this conversation. As the silence stretched on Bart no longer had anything to take his mind off his headache and the slow, steady throb seemed to get worse. Eventually, his headache won out over his curiosity and Bart dropped his head onto the tabletop telling himself he'd look more alert when Pappy decided he actually wanted to talk.

As he set there with his head down Bart couldn't suppress a soft groan. He'd didn't think he'd ever felt as bad as he did now. Why, when Pappy had asked him not to drink, had he not been warned about hangovers? If he'd known last night what he knew now… then again he wasn't sure it would have made a difference. Hearing a soft thud, Bart lifted his head with a grimace and saw that Pappy had put a glass down in front of him.

Beau took the chair across from him again and indicated the glass. "Drink that."

Bart eyed the glass apprehensively. It was filled with some kind of dark…guck. That was the only word Bart could think of to describe it. Whatever it was, it didn't look fit for human consumption. "What is it?"

"Something that will cure what you've got. Drink it."

It didn't sound like a suggestion so Bart took a tentative sip, faintly hoping it wouldn't taste nearly as bad as it looked. Unfortunately, it did. The mixture was spicy, bitter, and had the consistency of an oyster. Gagging slightly, Bart spit the liquid back into the glass. "What's in that?" he asked with a cough.

Pappy smiled. "You'd rather not know. Drink it."

Bart took another drink, forcing himself to swallow this one. A shudder ran through his body and for a moment Bart was afraid it was going to come back up.

"I know it doesn't go down quite as smooth as whiskey does but trust me when I tell you you'll thank me for it later."

At the mention of whiskey Bart felt the shame of what he'd done last night wash over he again. Without any prompting he took another drink of the vile concoction, as through whatever was in the glass might help to wash some of his guilt away. No, it didn't go down as smooth as the whiskey, and unlike whiskey it didn't get any easier to drink. As Bart choked down another swallow he couldn't help but think that maybe this was some kind of punishment for getting drunk. He really couldn't see thanking Pappy for this.

Beau couldn't deny he wasn't getting at least a little enjoyment out of watching Bart try to force the concoction, his own special variation of a Prairie Oyster, down but his amusement began to fade as he thought about why he'd had to mix the drink to start with. A feeling of absolute dread had kept his stomach in a knot since this morning and he knew he couldn't put off talking with Bart any longer.

Beauregard Maverick would never be accused of being a man who easily admitted his faults to anyone; admitting his shortcomings to one of his children was an even bigger challenge for him. Steppling his fingers Beau leaned back in his chair, his cool exterior hiding just how much he didn't want to have the coming conversation. "When did this start, Bart?"

"Just a couple of nights ago, I swear."

Beau was relieved by the answer. It meant Bart hadn't had time to develop a habit yet. If he had anything to say about it Bart never would develop that habit. "Was it worth it?"

Bart didn't answer right away and he was a little ashamed to find he actually had to think about it. He'd be lying to say he hadn't enjoyed it, the first three or four particularly. After that, well, they weren't worth being sick as a dog last night or the hangover he had now or the disappointment he saw clearly in his father's eyes. "No," he finally admitted.

Beau hadn't missed Bart's hesitation. "You liked it didn't you?" he asked quietly.

Bart looked down as he felt the heat spread over his face. He didn't know how Pappy knew but he couldn't look at the man and admit that.

Beau sighed; Bart's silence was all the answer he needed. It was the answer he'd expected but that didn't make it any easier to hear. He'd passed along a good many traits to his boys and most of them were things he was proud of, but a taste for alcohol was the one thing he wished he could have kept Bart from getting. "What happened? You just suddenly decided to start drinking?"

Bart shifted uncomfortably. "No." An edge was starting to creep into Pappy's voice. Bart expected it was only going to get worse from here.

"Would you care to explain what happened?"

Bart thought about that. He couldn't tell Pappy it had been Madison's offhanded remark that had started all this. Thinking of Pappy's response to being told this had started because he'd allowed himself to be goaded into drinking by something as stupid as an insult was a little frightening. Pappy's response to finding out he'd been insulted by being called a Maverick was downright terrifying. "There's nothing to explain," he mumbled, dropping his still aching head into his hands. "I did something stupid."

Beau crossed his arms and regarded his son. Bart was hiding something. "Yes, you did. But that's not all. So I asked again, would you like to explain?"

Bart squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't in the best of moods anyway; this guilt that seemed to be growing by the second was just making it worse and Pappy's questioning certainly wasn't helping matters any. "It was stupid," he said tensely. "I don't have an explanation."

"That's not good enough," Beau snapped. Bart's lack of real answers weren't doing anything to improve his mood either.

"I'm sorry," Bart replied, rather shortly.

Beau slowly drew in a breath, doing his best to remain calm. "Bart, you're a Maverick. This family…"

"I know!" Bart bit out. "Maverick boys don't drink. Everybody knows that."

Bart didn't know what made him say it but the moment the words left his mouth he realized what a terrible mistake he'd made. For starters, he'd interrupted his father, which was something one just didn't do. To make matters worse he'd also practically yelled at him and then admitted his negative attitude toward being a Maverick. Slowly he looked up dreading what he would find. Pappy couldn't have looked more surprised if Bart had reached across the table a slapped him. For several tense moments a deafening silence held the room.

Finally finding his voice, Beau took a deep breath and leaned forward on the table. "Would you care to repeat that?" he asked in an icy tone.

Bart winched. "No, Sir."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes, Sir. It won't happen again."

"It'd better not! Now, let's discuss that last part. What exactly did you mean by everybody knows Maverick boys don't drink? That was a rather bitter tone I heard."

Bart swallowed hard, his headache all but forgotten under his father's icy stare. "I uhhh, I didn't mean anything. Just that we don't drink." It was a lame defense at best.

"You didn't mean anything; there are no reasons for anything you've been doing lately. You've about exhausted those explanations, son." Bart had thrown out some variation of the same basic statement too many times in the last two days, and Beau had had just about enough of vague answers. From his nights at the Dove to being drug home thoroughly drunk to his little outburst now, the younger Maverick was beginning to try his father's patience. The only thing keeping Beau's temper in check now was the fact that this was all very un-Bart like behavior. Pushing his chair back, Beau got to feet. Rubbing his face roughly, he began to pace. "You might want to give answering that another try."

Bart began racking his brain for an acceptable response. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid the issue. He didn't think Pappy would tolerate being told it was nothing, but he couldn't tell him about Madison's Maverick comment. He didn't want Pappy thinking he was ashamed of his name because that just wasn't true. He was proud of being a Maverick; he just wished he could separate himself from Pappy and Bret a little. But that was something he had a hard enough time sorting out by himself, he didn't think he could even began to explain it to Pappy. "A couple of nights ago a man offered me a drink and I accepted," he finally said. It didn't answer Pappy's question but maybe returning to the original issue would help him forget about the Maverick bit.

"A man at that flea infested hovel you like to call a saloon? And you accepted because my wishes no longer have any bearing on your decisions?"

Guilt hit Bart anew but he still felt the need to try and defend, or maybe justify, himself. "I didn't see the harm in just one," he protested, realizing at once how stupid it sounded. He'd already proven it had grown into much more than one drink, hence the reason for this discussion.

"And if last night didn't show you what one drink can lead to than I don't know what will. Did it ever occur to you while you were enjoying your _one_ drink that I might have a reason for asking you to stay away from alcohol? Did you ever stop to think I might have known what I was talking about when I told you to stay away from places like that?"

"I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly." Bart offered meekly. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that his best course of action now was to simply accept whatever Pappy said, just as he had yesterday.

"Obviously," Beau scoffed. The speech he'd spent the morning carefully planning had long since left him. He knew he was letting his emotions get the better of him and that was the last thing he needed to do, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

"I'm sorry." Bart wasn't sure the apology would do any good but it was the best he could offer at the moment.

"You do know your escapade from last night is going to be all over town soon, if it's not already? Is that the kind of thing you want connected to your name? People call you shiftless or lazy fine. But do you really want to be a drunk? "

Bart grimaced at that last part but he remained silent. He wasn't sure anyone in town knew his name well enough to connect it to anything. But even if he wasn't anything besides the Maverick kid he didn't want to be responsible for dragging the already somewhat infamous name down further.

"Why couldn't you just listen to me?" Beau demanded, his voice continuing to rise. "Bret's never felt the need to question my request. Why did you?"

That was Bart's breaking point. Pappy had never made a habit of comparing the two of them. As a matter of fact, Pappy was one of the few people Bart was sure actually knew his name and didn't expect him to behave just like Bret. Bart didn't think he could handle it if Pappy began to make that comprehension too.

Bart jumped from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table, causing Beau to abruptly cease his pacing. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded.

"Bartley!"

Bart ignored the warning. "I said I was sorry. I've admitted it was stupid. I know you wouldn't have done it and I know Bret wouldn't have done it, but I did. If I could change it I would but I can't." Without another word Bart turned and stormed out of the house.

"Bart!"

Bart had never dared to walk away from Pappy before and he knew he should stop. He knew stopping would help placate Pappy, he knew it would keep him from digging the hole he was already in any deeper, but he didn't. Even when Pappy called him by his full name again, Bart kept walking.


	5. Chapter 5

Bart didn't have a particular destination in mind when he stormed out. As long as he got away from Pappy and the house he really didn't care where he ended up. He merely walked, allowing the memory of Pappy's words, and the anger they caused, to drive him. It wasn't until his anger began to dissipate that Bart became conscience of his surroundings, and he was only half-surprised to find himself at the church. Smiling grimly, Bart moved around to the back of the white, clapboard building and surveyed the grave yard.

As a child he had sneaked over here every chance he had gotten - anytime he'd found himself without the company of his brother or cousin - but it had been a while since he'd visited. Taking a quick look around to be certain he was really alone he entered the cemetery and made his way to the southernmost end of it. Despite how long it had been since he'd been here, Bart had no trouble finding the headstone he was looking for. A headstone bearing the name of Belle Maverick. His mother's name.

Feeling a sense of loss like he hadn't in years, Bart set down in front of the grave. Propping his arms on his knees, Bart smiled sadly. "Hey, Mama."

This is what he'd done every time he'd managed to get away when he was little. He would sit by Mama and talk to her. During his talks he'd told her everything from the pointless, little everyday happenings at home to what he'd learned in school to his serious problems, which at the time hadn't amounted to much more than the few times Bret and cousin Beau had ganged up on him. As a boy he had found the practice extremely comforting but he'd stopped doing it years ago. As he had gotten older Bart had started to become a bit self-conscience about sitting in a grave yard talking to himself, and also somewhat fearful that Pappy or Bret would find out about his habit. He couldn't see either one of them understanding the unusual practice so, rather than risk the embarrassment of them finding out, he'd simply stopped. But today he needed to talk and there was only person he felt he could talk to.

"I wish you were here." Even as he said it Bart vaguely wondered how pathetic the words made him. He'd lived twice as long without Mama as he had with her, he should be well accustomed to her absence by now. Then again missing Mama wasn't really the problem; he had gotten used to her not being there years ago. It was just that some days, like today, he felt like they had just lost her and the void she'd left was still terribly new.

Bart drew in a shuddering breath. "I, uhhh, I did something really stupid last night. I've done a lot of stupid things lately. I got drunk last night." Bart stopped there imagining the shock that would undoubtedly be on his mother's face if she were still here. It didn't do much to make him feel better. "I know I shouldn't have and I know Pappy's against it, but I honestly didn't mean for it to happen. A man offered me a drink and..." Again Bart paused. If he were going to tell Mama a part of the story he really needed to tell her all of it. Saying it all out loud might help clear his head some anyway.

"Something's happened lately, Mama. I don't…I don't feel like I'm me anymore. You know I've always stuck close to Bret; even when Pappy decided I could go out alone I stayed with him. It seemed like the thing to do but…lately it doesn't seem I can do anything without being compared to him. I started playing in different places than him a while ago but I still feel like I never really get away from him and Pappy. Mama, I don't think the people in town even know my name. Everywhere I go I'm either Beauregard's boy or Maverick's brother or one of those of those Maverick boys."

For the next hour Bart poured his heart out in the empty grave yard, telling his mother about the feelings that had been building for the past few months. He started out trying to explain how he was proud of being a Maverick but he wanted to be seen as his own man, which led to telling her about his discovery of the Dove and the sense of freedom that came from being there. From there he went on to tell her about Madison and Blake and the drinks even admitting, somewhat shamefaced, that he'd liked the taste of whiskey. As the whole story came out Bart felt like he was shedding a weight that he'd been buried under for months, he even noticed his headache was better. Then he reached the part about this morning … and Pappy.

Every bit of relief Bart had previously felt vanished as he thought back to the confrontation with his father. He could hardly believe he had actually walked out while Pappy was talking to him. Not only had he walked away but he'd made the offence even worse by yelling at him. What was wrong with him? Yes, Pappy had been mad and no, it was never a pleasant thing to face the anger of Beauregard Maverick but Bart couldn't honestly say he hadn't deserved it. Ruefully, Bart remembered the wish he'd made this morning that he could die and was forced to admit to himself that it was a wish that was likely to be granted soon. He had little doubt that the next time he saw Pappy; the man was going to kill him.

Sighing, Bart dropped his head back into his hands and warily rubbed his eyes. "I was going to try and tell Pappy about this but…" Bart trailed off, winching as he thought about the scene at the table earlier. "I told you I've been doing a lot of stupid stuff lately and this morning I think I might have been even dumber than I was last night. Pappy got mad when I tried to talk to him and I ended up yelling at him. Then I walked off while he was talking." Again Bart could imagine his mother's displeasure. "I know I shouldn't have done that either," he muttered, not even attempting to make any excuses for that grievance; there weren't any he could make. He shouldn't have done it. Period.

Beauregard Maverick had moments in which he could be a very unreasonable man, no one knew that better than the other members of the Maverick clan, but Bart couldn't say this morning had been one of those moments. Actually, Pappy had done exactly what Bart had expected him to do. That expectation hadn't made Pappy's condescending lecture any easier to hear, but it wasn't as though Bart had been blindsided by his reaction. Pappy's actions didn't really matter though, the fact remained that Bart shouldn't have turned his back and left. Beau was his father, and Bart had been raised on the principal that his father was due a lot more respect than he'd shown him today.

Bart chuckled bitterly. "I guess one good thing will come out of this, Mama. I expect I'll be seeing you soon, because I figure Pappy's probably going kill me when I go home." As the words left his mouth, Bart got a terrible sinking feeling. The last little while had help clear his head immensely but he realized with that statement that he'd reached the point he'd been dreading. It was time to go home. There really wasn't a reason for him to stay here any longer and honestly, he didn't want to stay. The fact was, he was ready to get this whole ordeal over and done with, regardless of what was waiting for him at home.

Reaching out, Bart lightly traced the letters of his mother's name with his fingers. "Bye, Mama." Sighing heavily, Bart got to his feet. Turning back towards the ranch, Bart steeled himself to face his doom. Again.

* * *

><p>For several moments after Bart ran out, Beau stared at the door, completely dumbfounded, and tried to sort out what had just happened. Before Bart had come in earlier, Beau had repeatedly told himself that he was not going to lose his temper, that he would give Bart a chance to explain; that he would not jump to conclusions. It hadn't worked. In fact, it had taken very little time for him to blow up and in turn cause Bart to blow up. And that's what was bothering him the most, Bart's reaction.<p>

Ordinarily, Beau would not have tolerated being spoken to by one of his boys the way Bart had just talked to him, much less have allowed him to walk away while he was still talking. Indeed, had circumstances been normal he would have jerked a knot in Bart's tail long before the boy had a chance to storm out, but under normal circumstances Bart wouldn't have done something like that. The mere fact that he had made Beau even more certain something was going on; something that had nothing to do with his earlier anger or even Bart's hangover.

Pulling a cigar from his packet, Beau lit it and took a long draw before beginning his restless pacing again. He knew things had escalated so quickly because of his anger, he also knew Bart assumed that anger was directed at him and that wasn't true. Beau was disappointed in the choices Bart had made last night, but he wasn't angry with him. All the anger Beauregard had been feeling had been aimed at himself. He'd been ashamed of his own mistakes, uncomfortable with the notion of lying them out in front of his son, and afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep Bart from making those same mistakes. There was also the smallest bit of regret that he hadn't had the guts to tell his boys all of this sooner. Had he shared his story with Bart when he'd first asked him to stay away from alcohol then the whole issue might have been avoided. All of this had combined to make him mad, and he'd taken that anger out on Bart.

Briefly, Beau considered trying to go after Bart but quickly decided against it. Bart would be back. Beau had no doubt about that, and it would probably be sooner rather than later. It would be best to wait for Bart, to give both of them a chance to cool off and clear their heads before they met again. Sighing, Beau crushed out his cigar and headed towards his bedroom.

As he stepped into his room, Beau paused, his eyes immediately going to his dresser where a framed photograph of his wife was kept. He'd taken her to have it done shortly after they were married and it was one of his most prized possessions. For a minute he couldn't do anything but stare at her face. Even after eleven years, not a day went by that he didn't think of her, but some days were worse than others. Finally a smile came through. "I wish you were here, Belle."

Groaning, he set down on the edge of his bed and went back to looking at the picture. "A problem has come up and I know you'd be able to handle it better than I am." He took a deep breath. "Bart came home drunk last night. I should say Bret dragged Bart home last night. I tried talking to him about it a while ago and uhh… It didn't go well." That was a gross understatement.

For the next little while Beau detailed the brief talk he'd had with Bart. He didn't bother to try and gloss over how he knew his own surly attitude had played a significant role in Bart's uncharacteristic outburst, there wasn't a point. Besides, Belle would have known better anyway.

"I'm not mad at him," he said firmly, as he finished his story. "He did something stupid but we both know I'm not immune to stupidity. That's what I'd planned on telling him; to explain to him about me. About us. I'm afraid the anticipation of it made me a little edgy." Beau chuckled humorlessly. "I don't suppose any man likes detailing his failings, especially to one of his boys, but you know me. I'd just as soon take a beating as admit I was wrong. About anything."

If Beau didn't know any better he would swear that Belle's eyes were now drilling into him, and he could almost hear her telling him how wrong he had been and exactly what he should have done differently. Looking back at her picture he smiled grimly. "That's not an excuse though, is it?"

Standing up, Beau started pacing once more, hoping to burn off some of the jitteriness he felt. "He's turned out so much like you," he said, continuing his monologue. "He's stubborn as a mule, but I suppose between the two of us he didn't have much of a chance with that. That fighting side of his came from you, and that temper too. Sometimes I don't know what to do with it." Beau grinned as he thought about his youngest. It had always seemed that trouble had hunted Bart with a vengeance and he didn't see that changing any time soon. "You'd be proud of him though, both of them."

Beau went over to the dresser and sighed, staring at the photograph again. "I know things would have been different if you'd been around, but I did the best I could. I hope you know that."

Pushing back from the dresser, Beau started to leave the room but he paused just before he got to the door. Turning, he gave the photograph another look. "Belle, I figure Bart's going to be coming home soon and what's going to happen isn't going be easy. If there's any way that you could help me out…well, it'd be nice to have you."

Blowing out a breath, he went back to the sitting room to wait for Bart.

**A/N: First of all, thank you to all my readers who have given me support on this story through either following or reviewing. I really appreciate it. Secondly, thanks to Mavericklover2 for naming Belle and letting me use her in this story. Finally, this story has gone way beyond what I'd first planned. Originally, I had planned on this being around three chapters or so and I didn't intend for it to be quite as serious as it has become. We still have a little ways to go but hopefully I can get it all wrapped up in a couple of more chapters. Thanks for reading. **


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